


Lost Light Book Club

by MooseKababs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Book Club, Fluff, Gen, HAPPY WHIRL, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, rung-centric i guess, they're precious together thats what matters ok, tw: getaway, two dudes with bad eyes reading books, you can take whirl and rung any way you want listen i just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8545930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseKababs/pseuds/MooseKababs
Summary: ' ' “R e a d   m o s t   o f   t h e m,” he admitted, plopping back down. Rung couldn't get the first two words out of his mouth before Whirl waved him off. “Don't read anymore. Optic isn't right for the setup. Too dark for my filters. Used to love it! Favorite thing to do next to making clocks and flying.” ' 'Whirl gets an idea and ropes Rung into it with him. Awkward attempts at friendships ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, ok, this is supposed to be part of a series, or at least a longer fic, which is why it's got the open chapter count. At the moment I don't know if I'll ever get another part out, as much as I want to, just because I get discouraged by my inability to smoothly transition through chapters. It's best to take this as a one-shot and anything that comes after it is a pleasant surprise.
> 
> That being said this is primarily unbetaed, so feel free to point out any mistakes. The relationship between Rung and Whirl can be taken as either romantic or platonic but either way, I hope it feels natural and caring. 
> 
> There's also a headcanon in the following fic, that certain optics can be damaged by intense or high frequency light waves, and so protective filters were created to block out certain colors. I think I do a pretty good job explaining it in the fic but if you have any questions feel free to ask about it.

The Recreation Deck of the Lost Light was arguably the most popular place on board to be when you weren’t on shift. There was a quick elevator straight to Swerve’s, lots of viewports and plush seating and strange cubby-like rooms that  _ defined _ group leisure. Granted some mechs preferred the atmosphere of Swerve’s itself, it was almost unheard of to find the rec-deck devoid of crew members. To the bow was a stage that the drama club and some resident musicians constantly occupied, performances booked weeks in advance, lots of seating arranged in prime viewing order around the amphitheatre. There were closed rooms of all sizes and uses toward the stern, most being used as meeting rooms for various clubs or friendly,  _ non violent _ competitions. Rumor had it that the staff of the Lost Light Insider gathered and discussed their gossip in one of the rooms, but for all the innocent bystander knew, the staff of the Lost Light Insider was one mech or femme.

 

Considering everything, there was quite a number of active clubs on the lost light. Paperwork was lenient, only applicable if the club required some sort of funding or would be committing acts as a whole--  __ like the  _ Minibot Clean-Up Committee,  _ whose main point was to be the first responders to the medbay in the event things would start getting knocked around. Amazingly, Swerve had founded it, stating rather astutely that “if all the tools are on the floor and across the room, a lot of time will be wasted when lives are at stake.” Evidently, Rewind and Tailgate had been enthusiastic about the idea and even Rung was an honorary member. 

 

There was a club for music appreciation-- A few patrons, Ultra Magnus one of them. Megatron came sometimes, too, but admitted to feeling unwelcome. There was one for alien entertainment, one specifically for  _ human _ entertainment, an  _ ‘adult’  _ talk group, an oil-reserve fishing club, a gun club devoted solely to increasing grouping, a gun club solely to increasing  _ shooting _ , a swordsmanship club, a sparring club, a spirituality club, a singing club, of course a  _ drama club _ …

 

Truly, the number of clubs was encouraging. Really, anyone could find something to do and if not, they could easily  _ make _ something to do. All these clubs meant people were talking, mingling, coming out of their shells and finding passion and motivation. It warmed Rung’s spark, and with a quick adjustment to his glasses and a regard to two new clubs that had shown up-- Terrarium club and highgrade-and-paint club (he’d heard it was an adaptation of a human thing)-- he began his shuffle to his favorite reading spot. Towards the starboard stern there was a number of nest-like lounging pits full of pillows and cushions, set into the floor and lit only by the low pallor of the stars they passed and the accent lines of the ship. 

 

Sometimes one or two of the pits were taken by groups of mechs enjoying one another’s company, or sometimes just the solitude. Rarely did he step into the space to find his favorite booth taken, though. It was positioned in line with a heavy beam that kept the glass of the viewport in place, blocking most of the view, and to the right and left were other plush pits that were just close enough to block the rest when occupied. The last side just looked back at the mostly empty room, too far from the rest of the windows to really enjoy the view. The pillowy nest in question was occupied this time, though, and the mech sitting in it with a precarious handle on his datapad was Whirl. Internally, Rung hummed a bit of amusement at the comparison- a bird in a nest, how quaint. More like a  _ dragon _ . Stepping to the side of the nest, he regarded the other.

 

“Whirl, nice to see you.” He said, his voice soft. The flier made a clicking sound and looked up toward him, antenna twitching. 

 

“Hey, four-eyes.” came the response, nice and subdued, a stark contrast to Whirl's normal tone of voice. The clicking came again as he looked back down to his datapad. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

The humor was dry, but Rung let out a small scoff of laughter anyway, watching as the flier repositioned himself and freed up the psychiatrist’s favored spot. He patted the cushion with a claw.

 

“Come on in, water’s fine.” The copter quipped, not taking his eyes away from the text he was reading. Rung was quick to accept, curling up into an arm full of pillows he arranged around himself meticulously. He was careful not to bump the flier, knees pulled close to himself to reduce his size as always, and the copter stretched his legs, propped them on a pillow, and pulled Rung’s  pedes across his lap, _ as always _ .

 

“What're you reading?” Rung asked, paging through his own datapad to find his place in a romantic novel. He set his glasses aside, the main reason he started coming here to read, and looked at Whirl who held up a claw. Whatever it was, it was ‘the good part’. 

 

Whirl, too, had a sensitive optic. It was definitely common among their kind, requiring protective lenses, but Whirl and Rung found understanding in each other’s uniqueness. Rung had warped vision which required not only the protective lenses but corrective ones as well, and Whirl’s optical sensitivity was much much higher than most mechs. Unknown to most of the Lost Light, Whirl had a  _ white _ optic. The yellow tint came from the three filters he had to wear in order to simply operate. 

 

It was because of the dimness here, in what was referred to by some as  _ the well of all-pits _ and others as  _ the nest bay _ , that they were able to see the world without the tints and the lenses. See true colors, feel atmosphere on their optics and blink it away and forget they were blinded in anything more than the glitter of stars. Though he hadn't initially guessed it, Whirl truly was quite the reader. There were days when he would simply admit to the shrink some of the things that made him feel most vulnerable, and days when he would fight Rung for every syllable that was pried from his vocalizer. It was on one of the former when he’d been peaceably rambling about some movie he’d seen, when he stopped, cocked his head, and admitted, “Though, the book was a lot better. You ever read human stuff, eyebrows?” 

 

When Rung had shaken his head, Whirl let out a synthesized whistle, regarding all the datapads shelved besides the display of model ships. “Don’t tell me these are all text books. Even you gotta be a nerd for some kinda… Horror, maybe? Fantasy?”

 

Rung shook his head again and smiled, pointing. “Middle two rows.” From there, Whirl stooped and examined every pad on the shelf carefully, then the one below it, making appreciative mumbles and muttering to himself about how he’d never gotten around to reading that one, or he’d read that series three times over, or he couldn't make it past the first chapter, eventually righting himself.

 

“Read most of them,” he admitted, plopping back down. Rung couldn't get the first two words out of his mouth before Whirl waved him off. “Don't read anymore. Optic isn't right for the setup. Too dark for my filters. Used to love it! Favorite thing to do next to making clocks and flying.”

 

Rung was snapped out of his recollection by Whirl's claw dropping back to his leg, and the dim, open white optic turned to him as the datapad was lowered. 

 

“ _ Fortilus’ Golden War Recounted _ .” He answered. “What about you?”

 

“Something you would purge on me for.” Rung replied with a smile, scrolling through the text. Out of the corner of his own optic he saw Whirl’s roll, landing back on the text it had strayed from as he mumbled something about Rung’s answer being gross. Long minutes passed in comfortable silence, one of them occasionally yawning or stretching. Minutes turned quickly to hours and the accent lighting of the ship lowered out of their focus, bringing the light of the room even further down. Even from here there was just the faintest hint of music from the other end of the ship, mostly vibrations that travelled through the floor and ghosted over any available paneling. The cushions were warm. Whirl was also warm. Before Rung knew it he was dozing off, and he pulled his legs free of the other quickly. 

 

“Whirl, I,” he gave a yawn, reaching for his glasses. “I’m afraid if I stay here any longer I’ll fall asleep on you. I believe it is time for me to turn in.” 

 

“Relax, Doc.” Whirl said, picking his arm up in case Rung actually wanted to leave. “Get some rest, I’ll wake you up and get you back to your hab suite when I go.” 

 

Code, Rung knew, for  _ I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be around anyone. _ Giving a drowsy nod and stretching, Rung wriggled his wheel-pack off with some wordless help from the rotary, rearranged his pillows, put his glasses in a subspace compartment for safekeeping, and relaxed into light recharge.

 

Whirl made good on his promise, gently batting the doctor awake with his datapad in lieu of any flat hand surface to speak of. He helped Rung with his wheel pack, reminded him of his glasses, collected his datapad for him and let his own filters click back into place. Together they shuffled down the corridor and into the appropriate elevator, and from there went their separate ways. Rung gave a quick reminder to Whirl that he was just a comm away if he needed anything, waited until he got the wordless affirmative ping in response, and curled on his side on his recharge slab, once again settling only into light recharge. It was a precaution of his, for fear of missing pings or calls or knocks on his door should he allow himself to sleep heavily. 

 

The next day was quite usual, Rung's day filled with acquisitions reports when it wasn't filled with the fears and woes of others. Skids came by for a session, still plagued by recalls of things he couldn't actually remember. Mechs without faces, words without voices, gestures that were three things at once but nothing at the same time. He admitted to being scared by some of them, feeling like he was having something waved in front of his face through murky water, and that if he could have recognized patterns in his earlier recalls he felt he might have known about Getaway,  _ known _ what was coming and stopped it.  This lead into a tangential downward spiral of admittance of grief about  _ everything _ , though he seemed to focus on Swerve. 

 

It had admittedly been a while since the ‘Swearth’ incident, but Skids seemed almost more distraught about it still than Swerve himself. He’d become protective of the talkative minibot, both in  _ and _ out of Swerve’s company-- which he was almost constantly in. He’d waited a while before asking Swerve to switch hab-suites to share with him, and here the outlier admitted it was in fact due to his growing somniphobia primarily rather than explicitly wanting to please Swerve. Rung was more than aware of Skid's new preferred seating in the bar, which was, in fact, right up front at the bar where Swerve worked. He wondered if the metallurgist ever got sick of Skid’s near constant questioning, constantly asking him about brews of engex or distillers, why things were priced differently, how Swerve kept things so well stocked, and other questions that were seemingly innocuous.

 

In reality it was his superlearning getting the best of him, and one night when Rung had startled at the bartender's disposition and wondered if he should perhaps intervene and send him to his hab to rest, Skids had swooped in and kneeled beside the befuddled minibot, talking to him quietly with a hand on his shoulder. Within moments Skids’ concerned, hesitant smile had turned into something a little more relaxed and spread to Swerve’s face, as well. They exchanged a few more words Rung couldn’t hear, and on Skids’ side more than a few flamboyant gestures, before helping one another to their pedes and shuffling about the bar, seeming to work in a pair. Rung had, at that point, smiled and excused himself. Skids, reportedly, was not the most graceful employee in the tight space, considering all the expressionary kibble that now drooped low and outwards at the admittance to the psychiatrist. Skids had left with the same sheepish smile on his faceplates, shaking Rung’s hand in thanks and offering him the reverse service should he ever need it.

 

Other appointments came and went, some promptly on schedule, some early, some late. Among them were Blaster, Minimus Ambus, and Megatron. By the time the latter two came, he had finished his reports, and had taken to reading between appointments to fill the time. Megatron was, as always, just a few minutes late, offering a polite apology and a disgruntled explanation that, as always, involved something of Rodimus’ blame. They had picked up there, and while Rung already had his datapad back in his hands while Megatron made his way to the door after their hour was up, the door had slid open to Minimus’ less-than-thrilled faceplates. Megatron had stepped out with a cursory glance to the datapad, curt nod to Rung, and the two commanding officers exchanged a few hushed words outside his office before Megatron parted and Minimus came in, seating himself and nearly insisting that Rung finish his page, assuring the doctor he was in no hurry. 

 

According to Minimus’ faceplates through the beginning of their session (and every other session they had to date), he was disinclined to share whatever the orange mech wished to know. Old habits died hard, and that was why he came in the first place. Breaking from habits he'd learned to protect his identity as  _ Minimus  _ rather than  _ Magnus _ . Allowing himself to  _ be _ Minimus. Becoming more approachable, kinder- more like who he was before his conditioning at the hands of a psychotic mech.

 

He left with a respectful goodbye and a very open wave, which Rung was willing to mark as progress, stalling just barely on his way out as his optics caught sight of someone he clearly didn’t care for. Rung's curiosity was soothed when kliks later Whirl all but sprung into his office, bouncing on his digitigrades the way he did just before a battle that promised to be damaging on all counts.

 

_ “Whirl,” _ he said, voice full of surprise. The mech was actually on time for the first time in two hundred years. That was alarming, to say the least. “What’s wrong? You seem agitated, I--”

 

“Agitated? No, no no, doc. I’m  _ elated. _ I’m  _ enlightened. _ I’ve had a  _ vision.”  _ the rotary said, voice rising an octave, but lacking all of the subtle venom that went into the vitriol of his rages. “You’ll never guess the idea I’ve had. Never.”

 

Cocking his head and sliding his glasses off as the room’s lighting algorithm figured them to be the only two present and thus, adjusted appropriately, he did a quick evaluation of what he knew while he sat back in his chair. Whirl seemed to only become more and more tense, like he was going to explode with excitement at any moment. His wings quivered, his rotors spun slowly and his optic was bright, still behind it's covers. “I… I don't think I will Whirl. Care to divulge?”

 

The ex-wrecker stuck up one claw to halt the other, nodding furiously, edging towards the door. Rung considered the gesture with a sweet smile, taking in the pitch of the chopper’s antenna and the soft trilling noise that he was sure would result in a gun being pulled on him for being brought up; Whirl escaped to the hall for a few moments before returning, this time unshuttering his optic and holding up a box; unmarked, unremarkable. Unceremoniously, he flipped the box and let it’s contents scatter across the top of Rung’s desk. Two dozen datapads. the backs all neatly inscribed with something. Rung picked one up, first checking its contents-- empty, but made to hold media, mostly literature, in a special UI-- before flipping it over in his hands.

 

**_LOST LIGHT BOOK CLUB_ **

 

It took a moment for the implications to set in, but Rung’s optics snapped up to Whirl’s and he couldn't help his smile.

 

“ _ Whirl,”  _ he started, disbelief in his voice. “Are you  _ serious?” _

 

The absolute restrained excitement that came out of the flyer was almost palpable. “ _ UH-HUH!”  _ there was a grin in his voice. “I made these bad boys myself! There’s plenty left to do, and, I uh,” he trailed off

 

Rung was looking back down at the datapads, flipping them all over and admiring the symmetrical typeface that even Ultra Magnus would be proud of, carved proudly in the back covers of each glossy, ashen grey datapad. Whirl was scratching the back of his neck right under his helm with almost worrying intensity, optics cast to the floor. Rung’s considerable optical ridges knit together and his voice was soft when he spoke. “Whirl? Are you alrig--”

 

“I mighta made you a special one,” Whirl cut him off sharply, and his arm was reaching into his subspace, withdrawing another datapad. Careful claws cradled it, spotless, towards the psychiatrist, who took it with nothing short of revelry. It was the same blue as the helicopter, buffed to a shining finish, a small silver bow magnetized to the metal case. Turning it over with careful servos, Rung looked at the back and was surprised to find a change to the engraving.

 

**_LOST LIGHT BOOK CLUB_ **

_ Chairman _

 

Once again Rung looked up at the rotor and was surprised to see his optic watching him, just slightly, but it snapped away quickly. Only then did Rung realise he’d allowed himself to stare, gaping, at the gift, and he attempted to get his vocalizer to react.

 

“Whirl, I-I  _ love _ it, I-- I just don't  _ understand _ ,” he said, voice quiet but full of emotion he couldn't have faked.

 

“Y’know. It was gonna be for me, that's what the color's about, but I realized while I was readin’ the rules for makin’ a club I don't wanna have to run it. Only be in it. Kinda cheapens the gift knowin’ I’m just givin’ you another a’ my mistakes but, next time I’ll call and ask what color you want it to be.”

 

Rung only smiled at him sweetly and shook hiis head. “I’m perfectly fond of this color, Whirl. I still love the gift. Thank you.”

 

“Y-Yeah.” The chopper shifted. “I uh-- I think I left the stove on, I’ll see ya’ Doc.”

 

And just like that, before Rung could protest or call out to the flustered bird, he was out the door and well down the hall before Rung could make it from his desk. Sitting back down and settling his glasses back over his optics, he went about the task of neatly setting the brand new datapads back into the box Whirl had carried them into his office with, sliding the box under his desk for safe keeping. When finally the job was done, he turned his attention back to the special datapad, fingers tracing it's edges, only to stop at the bottom on the back, where he hadn’t seen it. Small letters, neat and prim and clearly meant to be there, not spelled erroneously or misremembered, made up a something that made his servos shake.

  
  


_ Property of Rung. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you comment, I'll cry on your shoes tbh


End file.
